The Shot

Twelve minutes on scene. It's about 0700 hrs; the sun may have been up, but it wasn't visible through the light grey overcast. I looked at the man through the telescopic sights on my Remington 700 rifle. I opened the bolt partway and pressed down on one of the 7.62 by 51 milimeter rounds to make sure that it was loaded properly; it was. I looked down from my rooftop roost at him. They rarely knew I watched them. I could see hadn't slept recently. I could see the scared, cornered look on his face. He was probably only beginning to understand the situation he had trapped himself in. I could see the blockade of cars around the block, the mobile command center, a line of men in military BDUs ready to break into the building. My world narrowed down to that one man, then to a fixed spot on that man. We all waited.

One hour on scene. He is on the phone. I see him wave a pistol in the air. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he seemed upset. He was tired, frustrated, and starting to get desperate. My muscles were beginning to ache from being in the same poised position. Only my arm still felt relaxed. My eyes ached, but it was an ache I was used to. It felt like playing the longest staring game in your life, only if you blinked at the wrong moment someone could die. I continue to watch and keep the crosshair on the man. We all continue to wait.

One hour twenty three minutes on scene. He had a hostage. He finally pulled her out from the bedroom. I geuss she'd been in there the entire time. He dragged her to the window to show her to the guys on the ground. I geuss the phone conversation wasn't going so well. I felt a surge of adrenaline. Its a strange thing, most people get that high and want to run and do something physical. For a rifleman it gets conditioned to more stillness, more focus, more deliberate steady action. I rest my cheak on the familiar groove of the rifle. Everything seems to slow down a little. My finger moves to the trigger and rests just before touching it. The word doesn't come. He doesn't do anything immediately dangerous to the hostage. My cross follows him as he continues to move. He slams the phone's receiver down. I still watch.

Two hours sixteen minutes. Its feels like I've been laying here forever. Something tells me someone won't survive this. Its that sixth sense you get after a while. My hand hasn't moved. The man is getting more eratic. He hasn't been on the phone again. He just keeps pacing, sometimes slowly, sometimes like a caged animal. He must know his options are running out. I see him pull the slide back on his gun and put a round in the chamber. My partner radios the others. I feel the muscles in my neck go stiff. I try to get them to relax without moving. I breath a little deeper, a little slower as I make the cross follow an increasingly desperate man.

Two hours twenty one minutes. The entry team is going given the okay to go in and take the man into custody. The man has gone pale. He looks exhausted and more worked up with every moment. He is sitting on the couch just staring off at a point on the wall. The radio traffic says the entry team is getting ready to make a move for the door. Suddenly the man gets up and looks at it. My world tunnels to just that man. I see him raise the pistol at the door. In a moment I apply a light touch to the trigger of my rifle. I feel it kick against my cheek and I see the man fall behind the spidered pane of glass. Reflexively, I move the bolt on the rifle. The shell makes the familiar metal sound as it hits the concrete and the room fills with men. I radio the ground, "Sierra Seven, suspect down." I feel the aching muscles all over relax. I blink and it feels like I hadn't done so in hours, though I know I have. I picked up my Remington 700 rifle and the one casing. My partner and I turn for the stairwell.